


Remorse

by RadioactiveDeLorean



Series: Guilty Ford [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Affection, Ford needs cuddles and warm drinks, Guilty Ford, Hurt/Comfort, Stangst, Why do I love to hurt him?, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 06:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10354671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioactiveDeLorean/pseuds/RadioactiveDeLorean
Summary: The guilt of all of his past mistakes eats away at Ford like a nasty infection. He never said goodbye to the kids. He never thanked Stanley. He put the whole world in danger. He has debated leaving the Shack for so long, but one of his brother's memory lapses almost pushes him over the edge.(Another fic forSkaleigha'sGuilty Ford AU.





	

If he had to give a specific time, Stanford would have guessed it started the day after the apocalypse ended. It started off as a small voice at the back of his head, something that was easily ignored and brushed off. Over time, however, it developed. What had started as a stray thought caused by a nightmare slowly grew into something worse. Ford could still vividly remember what the nightmare had been about. It had been the first of many variations of the same dream: he had been standing out in the woods, watching as the sky above him was torn open and all sorts of unholy monstrosities came flooding out, their ringleader being none other than Bill himself. Once the demon had gained a physical form, Ford knew the world was doomed. 

 

The demon had the horrifying ability to manipulate time, matter, the universe itself, something he had taken great pleasure in. Heck, he had disassembled each individual molecule in Ford's body, shot them across the room and reassembled them in perfect order on the opposite side of the penthouse suite. The demon had repaired Ford to almost perfect health on several occasions, only to slowly beat him down again. 

 

In the dream, it hadn't been Ford being beaten to a pulp. No, it had been the kids. Bill had the twins chained up as he slashed them, hit them, burned them, drowned them, beat them, crushed them and suffocated them. Ford had been locked into place by tight chains, his head forcibly turned towards the kids at all times. Bill had made him watch as he tortured the children. Ford had screamed and screamed, constantly trying to sacrifice himself to save the children. He knew exactly what the dream meant: the kids were almost tortured and it was all Ford's fault.

 

Ford still remembered the utter dread that shot through him when Bill suggested torturing the kids to get the information he wanted. Ford had been terrified, his cry of horror being cut short as Bill turned his body into solid gold. Dear God had Ford been relieved when he'd been unfrozen, to see the children alive and almost unharmed. He remembered hugging them and then hugging his old college partner Fiddleford. Ford felt a twinge of guilt as he realized he'd never hugged his brother Stanley. He had barely paid any attention to his brother during the apocalypse. He'd refused to thank Stanley for saving his life until the world depended on it. Even then, he'd had to point out the grammatical mistake in what his brother had said, which resulted in he and Stan having a fight. The whole plan to defeat Bill was ruined. Ford had made a mistake and the plan was thrown out the window.

 

Ford seemed to have made a lot of mistakes.

 

As time went on, Ford seemed to dwell more and more on all of the mistakes he'd made in the past. The most catastrophic one seemed to be building the portal. He'd endangered the universe with that thing, and yet he had still refused to listen to reason. Fiddleford had warned him time and time again about the dangers of such a machine, but Ford, blinded by his own selfish desires of fame and fortune, had ignored him. The guilt in the pit of his stomach swelled the more he thought about all of his transgressions. 

 

Eventually, Ford stopped turning up in the kitchen whenever the rest of the Pines family were eating. For a while, he'd forced himself to eat, even though he was only eating small portions. As he thought more and more about his past, he recounted all the times Stanley had paid for his mistakes, in a monetary sense or otherwise. He couldn't bring himself to eat the food Stan was providing, knowing it was just costing his brother more money. He was a grown adult - he had no excuse to live off his brother's earnings. The children had an excuse - they'd been staying at the Shack for months and were too young to be employed. They'd helped out at Stanley's gift shop, anyway, which had more than earned their keep. What had Ford done to earn his? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He'd spent the majority of the time before Weirdmageddon in the basement, working and dismantling the portal. He'd done nothing but make his brother's life more difficult. And then, to top it all off, Ford had the sheer  _ audacity  _ to tell Stanley to hit the road as soon as summer was over. He'd never apologized for that, and the guilt continued to eat him away.

 

As the guilt continued to press down on him, he'd been having nightmares more frequently. He'd barely slept in weeks - not since the kids had gone home. He’d barely seen his brother since then. For the first few days, he'd worked up the courage to get something to eat and sit down in the kitchen with Stan. Then he'd been reduced to getting food and, if he was alone, sitting down to eat or, if Stan was there, taking his food back to his room to eat by himself. He'd only been able to keep that up for two days, after which he'd only get food in the middle of the night when he knew his brother was asleep. One night, Ford had accidentally tripped and dropped a plate, causing a loud crash. Stanley had been woken up and burst into the kitchen with a shotgun, pointing it at the man he thought was an intruder. The look of sheer irritation on Stan's face after having been woken up was enough to stop Ford getting food even when Stanley was asleep. He couldn't risk causing his brother to lose any more sleep.

 

By now, it had been a week since Ford had last eaten anything and the hunger was starting to become unbearable. It gnawed away at him constantly, making him feel nauseous and lightheaded. It prevented him from getting any sleep. Ford rolled over on the couch and checked his watch. 2:11 A.M. Surely Stanley couldn’t be awake at  _ this  _ hour of the night? It couldn’t hurt just to get a little something to eat, could it? Part of Ford’s mind told him to stay in bed, where he couldn’t make any noise to wake his brother up. His stomach growled furiously, demanding that Ford get out of bed and get something to eat. Despite the guilt still pressing down heavily on his shoulders, Ford swung his legs over the edge of the bed, put his glasses on and forced himself to his feet. The floorboards creaked underneath his weight and the man froze. He waited. Waited for any sign of movement upstairs, indicating his brother was awake. After a solid three minutes, Ford determined that the sound had gone unnoticed and he took a slow, gentle step towards his bedroom door. He was dressed in a red turtleneck and dark brown trousers - he didn’t have any sensible night clothes. As he got to the door, he slipped his boots back on. 

 

Reaching out a hand for the doorknob, Ford paused, his hand outstretched in front of him. In the moonlight streaming in through the window, his six fingers were almost underneath a spotlight. He held his hand closer to his face and spread his fingers out. He counted them over and over again. He’d done this so many times throughout his childhood and adolescent years, always with the slightest hope that he had normal hands. Every time he counted, there were always six. There had always been six and there would always  _ be  _ six. Ford remembered that, as a young child, he had sometimes had dreams where his hands only had five fingers. In these dreams, he was not bullied at school. He was not pitied by the teachers. He was not given any sort of the special treatment that one might give to a child with a learning difficulty or a mental disability. He was treated just as a normal child. Those dreams had been wonderful. He finally fit in at school. He was  _ popular,  _ even. All of the kids who used to pick on him were suddenly his friends and he was happy. Those dreams always ended, however, and Ford was forced back to face the cold reality of his birth defect. He’d eventually come to realize and accept the fact that he was never going to be normal, no matter how hard he prayed. 

 

Ford bit his lip and shook the thoughts from his head, reaching out and turning the doorknob. The door swung open with a creak, one Ford was sure his brother had heard. Again, he paused and waited for any indication that his brother had heard him. Nothing. The house was utterly silent. Releasing a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, he stepped forward into the hallway. Occasionally, a floorboard groaned quietly beneath his feet, but it wasn’t anything loud enough to warrant any concern. Soon, he turned a corner and entered the kitchen, nearly tripping up on a stray empty can of Pitt cola. Ford rolled his eyes. Even now, aged sixty-something, Stan still couldn’t be bothered to throw his rubbish in the bin. The man knelt down and picked the can up, gently placing it into the recycling bin by the door. 

 

Ford tiptoed over to the fridge and pulled the door open. The bottles of milk, ketchup, and soda rattled in the door loudly. He cringed and bit his lip. After a minute, when he’d heard nothing from upstairs, he quickly grabbed a slice of bread and the butter and closed the fridge. Getting a blunt knife out of the drawer and a plate from the cupboard, Ford set the bread down on the plate and started spreading it with butter. He cut the slice in half and pressed the two buttered halves together. He didn’t want to put anything between the halves of the slice - he didn’t want to use up too much of whatever food Stanley had left. Taking a bite of the bread, Ford only just then realized the extent of his hunger. Within a minute, the slice was gone and Ford was debating taking another. He shook his head and scolded himself.

 

_ You can’t waste any more,  _ the voice in the back of his mind told him.  _ He’s already given up so much for you. Don’t make him hate you even more. _

 

With a quiet sigh, Ford put the butter back in the fridge and turned to put his plate in the dishwasher. His hand knocked against it and it was knocked from the counter. A loud crash echoed through the otherwise silent house and Ford swore. Damnit. He’d done it again. As he was bending down to pick up the pieces of broken plate, he heard someone else enter the kitchen. He froze in place, feeling the barrel of a gun being placed against his temple.

 

“Get up.” His brother barked. 

 

Ford did as he was told, horror flooding his mind. His brother was having another memory lapse and seemed to have forgotten that he had a twin brother. This meant that there was a strong possibility Stan would shoot him if he made any wrong moves. Slowly getting to his feet and putting his hands up where Stanley could easily see them, he chewed his lip.

 

His brother cocked the gun. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

 

Ford took a deep breath, his hands shaking. “Stanley, I’m your brother, Ford. Don’t… don’t you remember me?”

 

Stanley only narrowed his eyes. “I don’t have a brother. Stanley Pines died in a car crash thirty years ago. I’m Stanford.”

 

Ford flinched. Hearing his brother call himself by that name never got any easier. “No, y-you’re not. You’re Stanley. You took your brother’s name -  _ my  _ name - when I went missing. You’re Stanley. You faked your own death.”

 

Stanley scoffed and pressed the barrel of the gun against Ford’s chest. “Yeah, right. What sort of bullshit are you making up?”

 

“It’s not bullshit!” Ford exclaimed. He flinched and inhaled a sharp breath as Stanley pressed the gun harder against his chest. 

 

“Yes, it is.” Stan snapped. “Now, I want you to leave my property and never come back, otherwise I’m going to shoot you. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Ford swallowed hard. “B-but-”

 

In a flash, Stan fired a warning shot at Ford’s left shoulder. The bullet clipped the top of his shoulder, leaving a small wound in his flesh. Ford let out a sharp cry and clamped his right hand down on the wound, stumbling backward. He looked up to see the barrel of the gun pointed directly at his face. “I said, do I make myself clear?” Stanley growled.

 

Ford nodded quickly. Stanley grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the back door to the house. He unlocked the door and shoved Ford outside. Ford stumbled and nearly fell over. He turned around just in time to see Stanley slam the door shut and lock it behind him. Ford felt a lump in his throat, making it difficult for him to breathe. He saw Stanley in the window and quickly rushed off into the woods before his brother had the idea to shoot him again.

 

Ford didn’t get very far, maybe half a mile, before it became too difficult for him to breathe. His shoulder throbbed in agony and the cold night air was making him shiver. He sat down beneath a particularly large pine tree and carefully pulled his hand away from his shoulder. His palm was red and slick with blood. Hands trembling violently, Ford slowly began to tear the bloodied sleeve from his turtleneck. He tied the sleeve around his shoulder as well as he could, letting out a sharp hiss of pain as the wound made contact with the fabric. Gritting his teeth, Ford pulled the fabric tight against the wound and tied a knot with the two loose ends. He leaned back against the tree, taking deep breaths. The effects of the blood loss were starting to get to him. He felt tired and lightheaded. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just take a quick nap?

 

Ford dismissed the thought and forced himself to get back up, his head spinning wildly. He groaned, placing his right hand against the trunk of the tree to stop himself toppling over. Taking shuddering breaths, he continued towards the main road. Maybe he could walk up the road to find a phone to call a doctor since he’d never quite got to grips with those ‘cell phone’ things. As he walked, however, his breath became more and more laboured, his vision beginning to swim. His feet began to trip and stumble over the rough earth. 

 

His left foot got caught amongst some particularly large tree roots and he lost his balance. Ford toppled to the ground, his hands barely cushioning his fall. He tried in vain to get back up. His strength left him. Ford lay on the cold, damp earth, breathing ragged and the occasional cough making him shudder. He couldn’t find it within him to get up. He was far too tired. Stanley didn’t remember him, he couldn’t go into town - everyone there still resented him after what he’d done - and he could barely get off the ground. 

 

The lump in his throat returned and Ford choked on a sob. He couldn’t help but feel as though he deserved this. All he’d ever done was make mistakes and hurt people. It was his own fault that Stanley didn't remember him. He'd erased his brother's mind to defeat that demon. He figured he deserved to be kicked out. He deserved this treatment. He screwed his eyes shut and gave in to the fatigue. Darkness clouded his mind and his whole body relaxed as sleep took over.

 

000000

 

Stanley grunted, locking the gun back up in the cabinet in his room. He muttered under his breath. He eased himself down onto his bed, his back cracking and popping. He was about to lay down again when a photo in a wooden frame on his nightstand caught his attention. It was a photo of himself as a teenager, wearing boxing gloves and playfully punching someone else. The other person in the photo bore a strong resemblance to both himself and the man he’d kicked out of the house a moment ago. Picking up the photo, Stan looked over it. The photo was old and faded, but still clear. He was getting some serious déjà vu vibes just from looking at it. 

 

The words the man had said earlier rang through his mind. 

 

_ “Stanley, I’m your brother, Ford. Don’t… don’t you remember me?” _

 

Something akin to a bolt of lightning shot through his mind and he gasped. His brother! That was his brother in the photo. His brother… the same brother who had been in the kitchen a moment ago. The same brother he’d …

 

Oh God.

 

“Ford!” Stanley leaped up from the bed and wrenched some shoes onto his feet. He tugged a jacket on and grabbed a torch before rushing downstairs and out of the back door. He turned the torch on and ran into the woods. He waved the light around, looking for any sign of his brother. The air outside was freezing, and if Ford had been shot … Stan had to hurry.

 

“FORD!” Stan called again, his eyes frantically scanning for any sign of Ford. “STANFORD!”

 

Something glistened against the bark of a tree and Stan shone the light at it. His stomach churned as he instantly recognized the slick, red substance. Blood. That was bad. Picking up the pace and wheezing, Stan kept running. “FORD!!”   
  


A few hundred yards ahead, he came across something lying in the grass. Once the light was on it and he approached, Stan could have sworn he felt his heart skip a beat. His brother was lying face down in the dirt, practically motionless. Stan rushed over. “FORD!”

 

Stan felt to his knees by his brother's side, rolling him onto his back. His eyes widened as he saw the blood soaking through the makeshift bandage on his brother's shoulder. Ford was out cold. Stan's hands were shaking. “F-Ford…?” He put two fingers to Ford's neck, searching for a pulse. He breathed a small sigh of relief finding that his brother's heart was still beating. It was slightly weaker and slower than normal, but it was there. Stan shook Ford's shoulder, trying to rouse him. “Ford, c’mon, wake up!”

 

Ford only twitched slightly. Stan swallowed, noticing how horrifically pale his brother looked. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his brother up off the ground and carried him bridal-style back towards the house as fast as he could. He was surprised at how light Ford was - he’d expected his brother to weigh more than that. Part of him wondered if he was underweight, but right now that was a blessing in disguise. It made it easier for Stanley to carry him - meaning he could, therefore, get him to the hospital faster. Ford’s head lay against Stan’s shoulder, the older twin’s mouth open slightly and his glasses resting crooked on his face. His breathing was getting shallower by the minute.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, Stan arrived back at the house. He set Ford down on the ground beside his car and rushed inside to get his keys. Car keys in hand, he ran back outside and unlocked the car, before heaving Ford up into the passenger seat. Clipping the belt on around his brother, Stan jumped into the driver’s side and jammed the keys into the ignition. He pulled his own seatbelt on with one hand and steered the car with the other, driving out onto the main road and heading towards the hospital. 

 

000000

 

Ford was met with bright lights the next time he opened his eyes. At first, he thought he was dead. There could have been no other explanation for the sheer  _ whiteness  _ of everything around him. As his senses began to come back into focus, however, he became aware of a repetitive, steady beeping sound emanating from somewhere above his left shoulder. He also became aware of the fact that the area where he’d been shot was rather numb. His head was throbbing slightly and felt as though it was full of cotton wool. He wiggled his toes, managing to regain some of the sensation back into his legs. Something was pricking the inside of his right elbow. He felt as though he were laying down in a bed somewhere. He gripped the blankets, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingertips. 

 

“...Ford…?”

 

“Ngh…” Ford fought to keep his eyes open, his hands clenching the blankets. He realized that his glasses were no longer on his face - his surroundings were blurred out of focus. “W-who…?”

 

A grey and pink shape moved into his field of vision. “Ford? You with me bro?” It was his brother, Stanley.

 

Ford squinted, trying to get his eyes to focus. “S-Stan…?”

 

He felt his brother hold Ford’s hand between both of his own. “Yeah, I’m right here Poindexter. How do you feel?”

 

Ford avoided his brother’s gaze, turning his head away. “‘M fine… why are you here?”

 

Stanley frowned. “What do you mean, ‘why am I here’? You were injured, Stanford, where else would I be?”

 

Ford shrugged, wincing slightly as he shifted his injured shoulder. “Anywhere else. There are a hundred places better to be than here, with … with me…”

 

Stan ran a hand through his hair. “Ford, what on Earth is bugging you so much? You’ve barely talked to me in weeks. You never said goodbye to the kids, you avoid Soos and Wendy like they’re the plague, heck, you won’t even  _ look  _ at me. What’s eatin’ ya?”

 

Ford tensed up, clenching his eyes shut. “It's nothing important, Stanley. You have a shack to run, customers to sell merchandise to, don't worry about me.”

 

“Soos is watching the Shack,” Stan waved a hand around. “I'm not going anywhere. Now, seriously, tell me what's wrong?”

 

Ford was silent for a moment, before letting out a quiet, bitter laugh. “What  _ isn't  _ wrong? Half the town's still a wreck, a good few people were severely injured, you lost your memories and it's all my fault. I ruined everything.”

 

Stan frowned. “What are you talking about?”

 

Ford laughed again, his voice full of self-loathing. “I ruined the whole summer. I ruined the kids’ lives. I ruined Fiddleford’s life. I ruined  _ your  _ life, Stanley.” Ford's voice cracked, tears stinging his eyes. “I just wrecked everything. I always thought that you were the screw-up twin when it was me all along.”

 

“Ford, you're not a screw-up,”

 

“Stanley,” Ford heaved a sigh. “All I've ever done is hurt people and use others for my own benefit. I summoned a dangerous monster just so I could build a portal that would make me famous. I guess Dad was always wrong about who the worthless twin was. It was never you. It was me, they just never realized it.”

 

“Ford!” Stanley grabbed his brother's hand. “Cut it out! I didn't bring you back just for you to beat yourself up!”

 

“You shouldn't have brought me back at all!” Ford snapped, tears slowly forcing their way from the corner of his eyes. “I’m nothing but a monster. I caused the apocalypse! I've hurt people! Bill should have just killed me while he had the chance. It would have been better for everyone.”

 

_ “Stanford Filbrick Pines you stop right there!”  _ Stan shouted. “You are  _ not  _ worthless. You are  _ not a monster.  _ You are  _ not  _ better off dead!”

 

“Give me one reason why I'm not!” Ford spat. “Give me one good reason as to why I'm not a worthless piece of shit!”

 

Stan felt his heart skip a beat. Did… did Ford really think all this about himself? “Ford, listen to me. You are  _ not  _ a worthless piece of shit, you understand? You know why? Because even though you messed up, you tried to fix it. You tried to correct the mistakes you made. You helped us defeat Bill. We would have all died if it hadn’t been for you.”

 

“I brought Bill to Gravity Falls in the first place,” Ford muttered, turning his head away. “I made the biggest mistake of my life and the whole world nearly paid the price.” 

 

“Ford.” Stan’s voice was stern. He gripped his brother’s hand in both of his own. “You didn’t know what Bill was, or what he was capable of.”

 

“I should have seen him for what he was!” Ford cried “I was an idiot! Anyone with half a brain could have seen that he was lying! I was too blinded by my own selfishness to see that.”

 

Stan’s brow knitted together, his gaze softening. “Oh, Poindexter.” 

 

Ford let out a quiet, choked sob. “I’m so sorry Stanley…I never wanted to hurt you. Please, just go. Go home, before I hurt you again,”

 

Stanley briefly considered getting up and leaving, but shook the thought away as soon as it appeared. “No, I’m not going anywhere. You wanna know what really hurts me? Seeing my brother, my  _ twin,  _ beat himself up and tear himself down like this. Yeah, you made mistakes, we all have, but that’s no reason to believe you’re worthless, Stanford.”

 

Ford bit his lip and cursed himself, feeling tears trickle down his face and drop onto the pillow beneath his head. “Then why did I make so many mistakes? Why did I turn my back on you when you got kicked out? Why did I ignore you for ten years? Why did I punch you after you wasted thirty damn years bringing me back?”

 

“Wasted? Ford, you’re my  _ twin brother,  _ there was no way in Hell I was gonna leave you in there,” Stanley ran his thumb back and forth across the back of Ford’s hand. “You didn’t deserve to suffer like that,”

 

Ford turned his head around to look at his brother, attempting to lift his free hand to wipe the tears away. Pain flared up in his shoulder and he let out a sharp hiss. Stanley pulled his own sleeve down and wiped the fabric across Ford’s eyes, drying the tears from them. Ford’s eyes flickered away, but he kept his head turned towards his brother. He felt Stanley run his fingers through his hair soothingly. Ford couldn’t help but shut his eyes. It was calming - it relieved some of the pressure from his throbbing head. He must have looked downright pathetic - a sixty-something-year-old man being coddled and comforted like a young child - but right now he couldn’t care less. He was tired and in pain.

 

Stanley couldn’t keep the soft smile off his face. “I love you, ya know that, right? I know you must think I hate you, but I don’t, honest.”

 

Ford swallowed and opened his eyes. ‘I love you’ was not something anyone had said to him in decades. Well, aside from the twins, of course. He looked at his brother, studying his expression. There was no hint of mockery behind his eyes. Stanley was being genuine. Ford let a soft smile of his own play onto his face. “I love you too, you knucklehead,”

 

Stan grinned and ruffled Ford’s hair lightly. “That’s better. Now, will you try and get some damn sleep? That bullet did a real number on you,”

 

Ford’s gaze shifted from his brother’s face to the wound on his shoulder, the smile dropping. “I guess it did, yeah,”

 

Stanley frowned. “Ford, I’m really sorry,”

 

Ford waved the concern off, turning back to look at him. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean it. You were having a memory lapse and had no idea who I was. I understand it must have been rather shocking to you,”

 

Stanley ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but still, I  _ shot  _ you, Ford.”

 

“It’s okay, I’ve endured far worse with no hospital treatment whatsoever.” Ford took hold of his brother’s hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s alright, Lee,”

 

Stan grinned at the nickname. “Alright, if you say so. Seriously, though, would you please get some sleep? You look like crap.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” Ford deadpanned, a playful smirk on his face. 

 

Stanley snorted. “Just saying it like it is, Poindexter. Get some sleep, it’ll do you good.”

 

“‘M not tired,” Ford said. He bit back a yawn, although he was sure Stan noticed.

 

Evidently, he did, as the younger twin crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? Well, then, why not just shut your eyes for a bit? These damn lights must be hurting them.”

 

Ford allowed his eyes to slide shut, trying to focus on the sounds and sensations around him to keep him awake. After a short while, everything began to blur together and he felt himself drifting off. He didn’t bother fighting it. His whole body relaxed as he succumbed to unconsciousness. His facial features relaxed, making him look much younger. The heart monitor continued to beep steadily above his head. 

 

Stanley rolled his eyes. Ford had barely had his eyes shut a minute before falling asleep. He made a move to get up from the uncomfortable plastic chair he’d been sitting in but stopped. He didn’t want to leave Ford alone, not yet. Not while his state of mind was still rather unstable. And, if he was honest with himself, Stan didn’t  _ want  _ to leave. Ford was hurt and his brotherly instincts were kicking in, making him want to stay by his brother’s side until he recovered. Stan settled back into the chair, already knowing he’d wake up with terrible back ache before he too allowed himself to fall asleep. Not once did he release his gentle, yet firm grip on his brother’s hand.


End file.
